


he looked in the wrong place for redemption

by homobirb



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Evil Ending, Gen, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 09:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21353953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homobirb/pseuds/homobirb
Summary: Talltree says, “I should have put a Ban on you while I had the chance, Dragon. One day Fate will come for you, and Her hand will not be as merciful as you wish. Your reign of terror will come to an abrupt end sooner than you anticipate.”
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	he looked in the wrong place for redemption

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from [A Sadness Runs Through Him by The Hoosiers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQUPwJ7JsjA)

Talltree knows Reid is coming for him. The cards told him; Death’s skull stared up into him, the Tower collapsing around him, the Ten of Swords stabbing into a corpse. And when he uncovers the final card, the Devil, the first thought that pops up in his head is the image of the doctor, once merely pale with light blue eyes, now engorged upon the blood of many, eyes catlike and red, fangs barred in a snarl.

When the doctor arrives, Talltree tries to remain focused, eyes and hands on the cards but attention upon the measured footfalls of his impending death. He swallows down any sort of fear and vows to himself that he will face it head on. Although, when his eyes finally sweep up the well-fed form of the doctor, meeting the gaze of the predator before him, he feels a cold shiver run down his spine, fear beginning to lace in his veins.

Every single one of his cells is screaming at him to run, muscles clenching tight, blood pumping, heart starting to pound. But he stays, takes a measured breath, and says with a surprisingly steady voice, “The cards have foretold your arrival, Jonathan.”

The doctor blinks at him; then, his lips stretch upwards, parting to reveal sharp fangs. “Yes, I suppose they always have.”

Talltree doesn’t bother watching the vampire’s movement as he strides behind him. Cold hands settle on his shoulders, not quite pushing but relaying enough hidden strength to keep him held down in his chair. “You’re not mortal. But you’re not a vampire, at least no species that I know of. What, pray tell, are you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

One of Jonathan’s hands moves to hold his jaw in a firm grip; Talltree expects his head to be wrought to the side, but does not complain when that does not happen. “You know what I have come here for. Why do you still refuse? Surely you are not attempting to buy yourself time to delay the inevitable.”

Instead of answering his question, Talltree says, “I should have put a Ban on you while I had the chance, Dragon. One day Fate will come for you, and Her hand will not be as merciful as you wish. Your reign of terror will come to an abrupt end sooner than you anticipate.”

“Oh? Do you have something you wish to divulge?”

“I have no more words for you.”

His head is finally, carefully tilted towards the side. It puts his neck at an almost unnatural angle, muscles stretching nearly to their limit. He can feel the vampire bending forward, feel his cold breath upon his throat. “Any last words?” Reid murmurs into his skin.

“None.”

“So be it.”

Fangs pierce down, a slick shock of cold pain shooting to his core. He balls his fists and grits his teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a struggle, the satisfaction of a fight. A cloud of dizziness descends upon his mind; he quickly loses the strength required to keep sitting upright in his chair, but the vampire holds him up, drinking in greedy mouthfuls, draining him dry. And when Reid digs his teeth in further, only to completely tear the skin on his throat and rip away sinuous muscle fibers, giving rise to an arterial spray that shoots wasted blood against the walls, Talltree feels his eyelids drop and he sends his last thought out.

* * *

_Dragon. I foresaw this meeting and yet I did not flee. Will you, too, go gracefully into the abyss? Or will you struggle like the abomination you are?_

The pure pleasure, the temptation of ripe fruit for the picking, is simply too much for Jonathan to resist. Usher Talltree’s corpse has slumped forward, dropping unceremoniously upon his desk, a puddle of blood forming under his neck, while his last thought echoes within his mind. There is nothing he can do, however; Talltree will always have had the last word, as every other victim of his had. It is useless to try to argue with a rapidly cooling corpse, since, as far as his formerly scientific mind knows, the truly dead do not listen.

He pats the corpse, searching pockets. He finds a key that unlocks the chest nearby, pocketing all of the crafting materials, then takes his leave. Who will be the first to discover this death? Perhaps that officer, investigating too close to matters that will bring about his ultimate demise, Jonathan muses as he heads towards the other West End pocket of civilization.

Charlotte does not look at him when he passes; her body shrinks backwards and she holds her tongue from shouting out her regular message about suffrage. No one else seems to notice, but he knows that she was quite astute, recognizing the monster he has become. After all, she had been merely across the street when he took the girl, Louise, into the walled in courtyard of the Ascalon Club, and she could not have missed the way he licked his lips as he left her corpse to cool against the earth. Never mind the reality that each district had a significant bite out of its residents, all barely hanging on to a thread above the descent into chaos.

No, he barely spares her a glance as he heads directly towards an old friend’s house.

He answers after several knocks. Clarence, standing behind the door, his fearful eyes peering out at him. “Leave me alone! Whatever you truly are, leave me! You will not be invited into this house!”

Jonathan gives an easy smile. “Clarence, it’s me, Jonathan. Your old friend, remember?”

“No, you’re not. You only look like him, but you’re dead inside. You, you’re a walking devil, searching for your next victim!”

He finds it mildly amusing, that Clarence still chooses to engage him. He could have slammed the door in his face, left him outside with no way in. But his old friend’s kindness, or perhaps his mind, now carefully held together in barbed shards, gives him an opening, a door into his haven, an opportunity Jonathan will not waste.

He drops his voice, letting his mesmerism fill every syllable with a saccharine echo. “_Come on, Clarence. It’s me, Johnny. Your old friend. Let me in, please. I just want to see if you’re all right._”

Clarence’s face goes the slightest bit slack, before his eyebrows furrow. “All right. I let you in, but you promise you won’t hurt me?”

It’s enough. Jonathan nods his head and begins to stride up to the threshold, Clarence moving and opening the door for him. Clarence retreats to stand in front of the protection of the fire, although the distance is not enough to stop an Ekon of his caliber.

He strides up easily to Clarence, watches him shift uneasily with every step he takes. He stops a mere few feet away. “How are you doing?”

Clarence splutters. “How am I doing? Well, I’m just jolly all right. My best friend has become a vampire and killed my Venus, and now has forced his way into my home and for some reason I can’t tell him to leave.”

“Is that so?” Jonathan quirks a brow. “You were the one that opened the door. If I am so much a threat to you, then why did you let me in?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know what you did. I know what you did.” He fidgets with the edges of his sleeves.

Jonathan steps forward. “And what did I do?”

Clarence looks directly at him. “You told me to let you in. But it was in that wicked voice of yours, the one that just takes over your victims.” He pauses, taking in Jonathan’s countenance. Jonathan wonders if he can see past his glamour, can see his eyes for what he really is. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re a vampire. I’m not crazy.”

Another step forward. Clarence worries his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing away at the flames. “Yes, Clarence. I am a vampire.” He takes another step.

This time, Clarence steps backwards, away from him. “And you’re here to kill me, aren’t you? Was Venus not enough for you? How many others have you killed? Mary? Your mother? How many more until you’re satisfied?”

Clarence’s back hits the wall. Jonathan is quickly in his space, placing his hands against his shoulders and gently pressing into him. “Enough.” He leans in, nosing his way along the skin of Clarence’s throat until he can feel the beat of his pulse against his lips.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Jonathan lets out a dark chuckle. “Would you like it to?”

“No.” The man swallows underneath him. “I don’t want to die, Johnny.”

“It’s alright, Clarence. I can make it so you’ll barely feel a thing. Vampire saliva is the best analgesic, better than what any doctor could give you.”

Clarence shudders when he gives one, two, three swipes of his tongue over where his mouth has settled. Hands grab at his lapels, but they don’t push him away. He stretches his mouth wide open. His fangs, all four of them, are perfectly positioned right above the thudding of Clarence’s heartbeat. Sinking down into the soft, warm flesh brings back that ever-fleeting pleasure, overwhelming all of his senses. He drinks, long and deep, mouthful after mouthful.

One of Clarence’s hands shift. It slides upwards, hooking around the back of his neck, cards through his hair. “Oh, Johnny,” Clarence says on a deep exhale.

His body nearly melts into Jonathan, slumping forward, fingers loosing their grip in his hair. But Jonathan merely slinks an arm around his waist and rests his other hand at the base of Clarence’s skull, holding him up.

He doesn’t tear out his throat. No, he leaves the skin (mostly) intact, just four pinprick holes, drinks until the thudding of Clarence’s heart in his ears stop. And when his body is cold and empty of life, Jonathan carries him up the stairs, his last thought sounding out.

_To be betrayed by my best friend. Whatever you do, Johnny, please do not make me come back as one of you. I could not live with myself as a killer._

Jonathan lays his body down upon the bed. He does not bother to right any of the strewn sheets, just leaves Clarence’s body undisturbed upon the mattress. “My bloodlust may never be sated, but leaving you to rest, forever, is something I can allow. Clarence, my old friend.” He is mostly sure that the dead cannot listen, but he still speaks, just in case.

* * *

The epidemic is over. The disaster has been killed, the Red Queen defeated. Lady Ashbury, horrified at what he has become, let herself be consumed by the fire. And he only watched, until her skin burned black and fell off in sheets of ash and her organs melted. Until only the crisped husk of a corpse remained, still burning within the heart of the fire. He left the fire untouched, let it swallow up the entire castle, including Charlotte’s tombstone in the garden.

He returned to Pembroke, but did not keep up his healing habits as often as he did during the epidemic. Dr. Tippets, the only senior doctor left after he had consumed both Dr. Ackroyd and Dr. Strickland, was still so infatuated with Jonathan’s prestige that he hardly said anything, only gave encouragements and words of understanding when he took to the streets most nights.

Priwen patrols, although beginning to thin due to Jonathan taking a significant bite out of their population, were still an active presence within most districts. Occasionally, a patrol would spot him before he could sneak up and attack and engorge himself on fresh, rich blood. Whoever led the patrols would issue a retreat. At first, Jonathan would just watch with curiosity. Was he now off-limits? Due to his actions in curing the epidemic, or did he just become too strong for Priwen?

A torch bobs in the distance. It’s a group of three of them, two rookies and a gunner. Easy enough.

He sneaks up to them, shadow-jumping between blind spots. He’s got his sword at the ready, a curved blade from Doris Fletcher before she burned down.

Jonathan shadow-jumps behind one of the rookies and clamps his hand down on the man’s shoulder before roughly shoving his blade straight through his body, right below his ribs. The rookie lets out a sharp gasp of pain, hands coming to clutch at the space around the sword. Before the blood can even drip down its length and hit the ground, Jonathan summons the shadows to hold the gunner in midair before impaling him with a shadowy spine, dropping his corpse on the ground. It’s almost too easy.

He pays no mind to the other rookie; right now, he’s more preoccupied by the sweet blood steadily dripping out of his next meal. Jonathan rips away his scarf to expose the supple skin of the man’s throat, then buries his fangs deep inside those pounding veins. He takes many quick swallows, draining him as much as he wants, until instinct takes over and he digs his fangs in deeper to tear out the man’s throat.

With a bloody snarl, he lets go of the man’s body. He tilts his sword downwards and shakes the blade a tad, letting the corpse slide right off and into the harsh cobblestone path.

A shot rings out. The bullet just barely whizzes past his face, close enough for him to feel the displacement of air whoosh against his cheek.

It’s the Priwen rookie that’s still alive. He’s fallen on the ground, hands clutching a shaking pistol. He cocks the hammer back and Jonathan waits for the next shot, waits for him to pull the trigger again.

The gun clicks. No bullets are fired. The Priwen rookie swears, then looks back up at Jonathan.

Jonathan steps forward.

The rookie tries to scramble backwards, but he soon meets a wall. And with Jonathan readily advancing upon him, it’s quite clear that he’s trapped.

“Please, leech. Sir. Have mercy. I’ll do anything. Just please, please let me go.”

Jonathan thinks for a moment. But then he remembers, the faces of everyone long past, their anger at his betrayal, their fear at his monstrosity. And if the thought was divine intervention, perhaps a shielded hand from his Maker, intent upon plowing seeds of doubt and guilt into his hollowed out heart, mortal conscious long shed; well, the effort was wasted, having long since forsook his identity as _Jonathan the Doctor_ and most readily took upon his current visage of _Jonathan the Monster_.

He squats down, bracing his hand against the brick wall behind the man. “Perhaps if you had caught me in a different lifetime, circumstances may have been radically different. But these are the strings that Fate has tied for us, and who am I to deny Her the inevitable?”

The rookie’s blood shines bright, splattered along the nearby surfaces.

* * *

It’s his last night in London. He’s freshly fed, Dr. Tippets’ blood staining his teeth, corpse discarded in Swansea’s old office. All of his belongings—mainly an assortment of weapons, with several medical supplies—are packed in his suitcase. He takes the scaffolding exit out, not wishing to gain an audience on his departure.

He is nearly to the train station when he smells it._ Blood_. Freshly spilled, and reasonably close. Perhaps a Priwen patrol or leftover Skal. Certainly he could spare the time to seek it out, get another easy snack before his long trip to Paris. Stashing his luggage within a safe house right on the corner of the road, he decides to pursue the delicious smell.

And yet this person, this creature, whatever it was, was proving quite skillful in avoiding him.

Jonathan chased him down alleys, past sharp corners and through decaying buildings, under bridges and finally, into the open door of the sewers. Excitement surges in his veins, the thrill of the hunt giving him the most fun he’s had in ages, with this prey that finally takes a bit of effort to catch. And yet, it will be all worth it, to pin them against the wall of the sewer, or perhaps the ground, in a pocket away from the sewer water, and dig his teeth in.

It’s both a relief and thrilling to finally catch up to this mystery creature. And then he finally recognizes who it is. Geoffrey McCullum, head of Priwen, vampire hunter, standing in the middle of the platform on which he fought his first sewer beast, one sleeve rolled up and exposing the _drip drip drip_ of a cut on his forearm. Too easy. He often wondered why his Maker had stopped him from plucking McCullum up and drinking him dry on the top floor of the hospital, but his question has since been answered. Now that his Maker is sleeping until the Red Queen next awakes, Jonathan finds that it is high time he tied up this final loose end before departing the city. He shadow-jumps down to stand several feet away from the hunter.

“I see yer still as blind as ever, leech.”

With those words, a heavy crash echoes from behind him. Jonathan looks; the route he had come from, along with the only route out of this room, was now blocked by what resembled a heavy iron door.

He turns back to the hunter. “I suppose I’ll just have to find another escape after I dispose of your corpse.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

McCullum fought with a vigor he lacked during the battle at Pembroke. Jonathan, lacking all of his weapons save for his claws and other powers, attempts to engage him at closer and closer distances. Claws bounce off a steel sword, McCullum narrowly avoids the shadows that burst forth from his feet, and Jonathan is hit with more than a fair share of arrows.

There’s a small opening, for nearly a fraction of a second; McCullum readies himself for a strike, leaving his midsection unprotected. And Jonathan is more than happy to take it, tackling the hunter to the ground, knocking his sword out of his hand.

They land harshly on the ground, McCullum’s head bouncing against the floor upon impact. He groans as Jonathan takes hold of his wrists, pinning his arms down, pelvis held down by his own.

“Any last words before I tear out your throat?”

“What’s the time?” McCullum rasps out.

Jonathan, chest still heaving with exertion, excitement, impatience, quirks a brow. “What?”

“Humor me.”

Taking hold of both of the hunter’s wrists in one hand, Jonathan uses his other to pull out his pocket watch. “It’s two fourteen. Noting your time of death?”

McCullum just looks up at him, smirk quirking at the edge of his mouth, contempt shining in his eyes. “This place is rigged to explode. Only a couple o’ minutes left ‘till we’re both blown to bits.”

Since Dr. Jonathan Emmett Reid turned, he has felt many things. Power. Rage. Awe. Grief. Surprise. And of course, the endless pleasure that is plucking the ripe fruit of life right out of other’s hearts. But the cold shooting through his veins, a storm waging war within his limbs, the poison settling like a thick cloud of cotton in his brain. It’s fear, he realizes. Cold-blooded fear.

But that can’t be it. This can’t be the end. McCullum wouldn’t take him down in a way that would pull him down, too.

Wheezing from below him brings him back to reality. His free hand is now wrapped around the thick column of McCullum’s neck, fingers squeezing his airway nearly shut. Jonathan reels his hand back, as though the reality of touching the hunter below singed his skin.

“You bastard!” McCullum said between coughs and gasps. A fist meets his face; he must’ve wiggled it out of Jonathan’s grasp while he was distracted.

Jonathan cannot help but return the gesture in kind, holding the sides of McCullum’s head and smashing it down against the ground, not enough to entirely crack his skull, but enough that he can see the way the hunter’s lips part in a heavy groan. As soon as his eyes stop blinking dazedly, McCullum jabs his fingers in the direction of Jonathan’s eyes, just narrowly missing. Instead, he takes the opportunity to grab onto Jonathan’s hair and _pull_ and-oh, Jonathan cannot stop the growl that tears itself from his throat. Instinct settles in and he uses his claws to rip part of the hunter’s shirt away from his shoulder, tugging the fabric until it exposes the entirety of McCullum’s neck, his pulse hammering away right below the surface.

He bends over to stick his face against the skin. There are hands at his shoulders, trying to push him away, but he holds still, taking in the scent of nicotine and cedar and sweat and _blood blood blood_ right beneath his mouth.

McCullum’s speaking abuses into his ear, telling him he’s nothing but a monster, a filthy leech, that he’s so glad to finally fucking kill, willing to sacrifice himself if it means this beast will be erased, that it’s only a matter of time until it’s all over, describing how he’ll drag him straight to Hell with his bare hands.

Jonathan has half a mind to just break the hunter’s neck to stop his incessant ramblings, but something stops him. Talltree’s last thought echoes within him.

_Will you, too, go gracefully into the abyss? Or will you struggle like the abomination you are?_

He was already condemned from the start. Stumbling out of a mass grave, blind with hunger, taking his own sister’s life, it was all merely the beginning of his humanity slipping. Fate had painted him a villain and he had no choice but to fulfill the role. And this is what he told himself as he bit down, hot blood bursting on his tongue. McCullum’s body tenses under his hold, hands loosening their efforts at pushing him away.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” McCullum says in his ear, before his body goes slack.

And if he can think of his rapidly impending death as a suitable redemption for the monstrosity he’s become; well, perhaps Fate could count this as a failure, for he’s no regrets, continuing to drink from the spring that is McCullum’s veins, as the explosion rapidly tears him apart from the core, letting his blood and liquefied organs and marred skin and his existence as a whole merely cease to exist.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://itshomobirb.tumblr.com/) and [my twitter](https://twitter.com/homobirb)


End file.
